A Little Bit Of Arson
by ThePaperWhale
Summary: For med school drop-out Angelina, extinguishing feelings is a matter of survival. Aspiring musician Grell Sutcliffe has lived by carelessly burning bridges. When Angelina takes to the stage with one little old violin, there's only so much firewood between them.
1. Presto

Angelina's mother had told her once to never perform at a venue that serves beverages in disposable cups. It was one of many little pearls of wisdom concerning good taste that she had strung up and given to her daughters, passing along the unspoken rules of high class life much like her father passed along his red hair**.** (Well, passed it to her. Big sister Rachel turned out blessedly blonde, taking the color along with most of Mother's natural grace. Anne had been left quite lacking in the important matters of inheritance.

This place certainly doesn't pass Mother's test; it looks more like a person's living room than a cafe, and the old scratched up coffee tables flanking the overstuffed couches of the sitting area are covered in textbooks, mugs of coffee, bottles of local beer, and soft drinks served, sin of all sins, in paper cups.

There certainly won't be any of her parents' friends in this crowd, nestled between the washed up old stoners and college students with unfortunate-looking bleached dreadlocks. On this little stage lined with electrical tape, she can't embarrass her family. She reminds herself of that as she pulls her violin from its case, steps on the little raised platform and looks, not at the faces in the crowd, but at a paper cup on the nearest table. Mother won't be here to criticize her, father won't be here to show her off to his cohorts, Rachel won't be here to coddle her when she turns shy. Vincent won't be by Rachel's side, kindly killing her with every formal nicety, making her want to scream.

She doesn't need to pretend that she's just fine here. She doesn't think about the music once she's touched her bow to the strings; doesn't fret over getting it right. She just thinks about all the things she never says in decent company and lets go.

If she does technically well at the song she's playing, she doesn't notice. If there's anyone even paying attention to her, she doesn't notice; simply gets lost in the melody, a piece that lilts fast and loose, spilling out her unspoken losses in that familiar, wordless, almost-human voice. It's beautiful; that's all that occurs to her- beautiful, messy, painful, loud. If there's applause when she's finished, she doesn't notice. Angelina has never cared much for spectators.

She packs up her violin after a piece or two and politely weathers the compulsory praises and greetings given to her by people she doesn't know; she can only assume that they are also involved in tonight's Open Mic event. She smiles and laughs along with their terrible jokes, as she's become skilled at doing, then attempts to make an escape as quickly as possible. She's done what she came here to do; what she dared herself to do, and she feels, if not better, a little bit relieved for it.

Unfortunately, she's prevented from leaving by a conspicuous, bright red obstacle. There's a man- on second glance, a kid, really- on bended knee before her, looking up through red framed glasses with an intense, adoring, toothy grin.

"Maestra!" He says in a surprisingly resonant voice (it rings out at an octave she would not have expected from someone so slight and effeminate), resting a hand over his heart, raising the other toward her, "That was absolutely beautiful. Your passion is unparalleled. My lady, you are a true artist, and I owe you no less than my deepest, most humble respect." He takes her hand, still bowing before her, "May I have the privilege of knowing your name?"

"Angelina," She says, too struck by his bizarre, archaic and unapologetically chivalrous presentation to be entirely put off by what would otherwise seem to be hollow praise.

"Lady Angelina," He says, rising to his feet, still bowed slightly before her while maintaining that intense gaze, "You must allow me to buy you a drink."

This part does put her off. She knows the implicit contract entailed in accepting the offer; she's been subject to it before, obliged to entertain someone whose attentions she may not want later, but who has bought himself a sense of entitlement to her time for his purchase. What this particular man wants from her, she can't imagine; it's probably not the typical come-on, as the kid's clearly just about as gay as they come.

"I can buy my own drink," She says, firmly, "If you want to talk to me, then just do it, but I'm not planning on staying here long, so don't expect me to."

"Ooh, bossy!" he says, with one hand pressed coyly against his cheek, "I like it!"

He takes her by the wrist, practically skipping over to the bar where he flirtatiously leans over the counter, kicking up one heel to reveal that he's wearing what looks like a smart pair of pumps.

"Pinot noir, in a real glass, please- aw, come on, honey, don't look at me like that, you know me; I'm not going anywhere with it." He flashes an ID card to the skeptical barista and flutters his dark eyelashes, "And then, my ladyfriend here will have..."

He looks toward her and she briefly glances at the chalkboard of offerings.

"Hibiscus tea," she says, "And- I'm sorry, what was your name?"

"Ah, where are my manners? Grell Sutcliffe," he says, shaking her hand as their drinks are set before them**:** a pink ceramic cup with a loose leaf tea bag that slowly bleed**s **color into the hot water, and a crystal glass of dark red wine**.** Apparently**,** the privilege of real dishes can be bought here with the right connections rather than cash- much like the commodity of respect in the world she knows. This Grell kid gestures toward the violin case that she keeps close.

"May I have a look?" He seems to catch her obvious distaste for the request and holds a hand over his heart**.** "I promise, one artist to another, I will be gentle."

She hands it over, and he opens the case reverently, lifts the instrument**,** and runs graceful fingers along the curves. She takes time to notice his painted fingernails, the color of which match his blazer, which matches his glasses, which match his tie, which matches his short, shaggy, red hair. Surely there must be a theme there.

"She's gorgeous," he says, with an adoring gaze.

"It's an antique," says Angelina, warily, "It was a gift, so... it's rather important to me."

"Hmm, but the way you handled her on stage, with such strength and force, I feared for her life," He says, testing the chin rest and mock fingering the strings**.** "You must treat a lady with a delicate touch."

"You're quite certain it's a lady?" Angelina stirs her tea, swirling the deep red that matches Grell's everything.

"Absolutely. With that passionate voice and resilience to your rough treatment, she could be none other."

"That's a fascinating definition of womanhood," she says, taking a sip of tea.

"It fits no one so well as you this evening, I think," He says, gently setting the violin to rest in its case**.** "You were the one who made her sing. Forgive me if I repeat myself, but the way you speak through your music is simply peerless. I feel as though I now know something about you that can only be spoken through song... as if we're kindred spirits of sorts."

She feels as if she ought to be put off by this sort of presumptuousness, the way she is by nearly all social situations that she's grown adept at politely enduring, but his words, for all the drama he dresses them up with, feel free of empty flattery. If nothing else, she's curious, and... desperately lonely. His talk of 'kindred spirits' reminds her all too well of that.

"Do you play?" She asks, locking up the case.

"Would that I only could! The skills required to seduce MademoiselleViolin have eluded me for years. I am a singer- by profession, in fact-if one might call our little unprofitable venture professional."

"Oh, you're in a band then?" She says, slyly smirking at the self-deprecating implication in his words. Grell traces one polished fingernail around the lip of his wine glass.

"Afraid so."

"What genre?"

"I don't think we could restrict ourselves to one single label."

She smiles wryly.

"Musicians who say that are always the ones who write the most derivative shit."

"Harsh!" Grell says, holding a splayed palm over his apparently wounded heart, his mock-offense melting into a slow smile, "Oh so cruel, milady... I like that even better. I suppose if I had to choose one style to describe what we play, it would Symphonic metal. I myself am classically trained**;** however, I've found the more respectable venues don't quite suit my needs. Music alone doesn't have quite the right impact without truly intense performance to support it, which is why we perform the most outrageous displays of staged gore and cannibalism since Titus Andronicus."

"Ah, so you have a gimmick that likens you to Shakespeare's worst play. Endearing."

Grell waves his finger emphatically.

"His most misunderstood play. There's much ado about nothing when it comes to lauding sophistication and restraint in high art, but there's just as much, if not more true value**,** in the unhinged, the visceral, and the grotesque. I dare say, it can be far more resonant."

"Death and destruction don't strike me as particularly artistic subjects."

"Mm, but consider, Maestra Angelina, how simple black may be a perfect foil for vibrant, vivid red hues. In much the same way, death, fearsome and dark, is a foil for life itself. In the same vein, the grotesque and morbid define the beautiful and the sacred, and true art questions the lines we have so arbitrarily drawn between the two."

"That's a lovely philosophy, though I can't say I find anything especially beautiful or moving about blood and gore in and of itself. I see enough of it in my daily life as it is."

"Oh?"

"I'm a med student, studying to be a surgeon."

Grell puts a hand over hers with an oddly sympathetic expression.

"Oh, love," he says, "You're in the wrong business."

She doesn't leave early as she planned. In fact, they remain as they are, sipping wine and herb tea until every last mediocre open mic act has performed and been thoroughly skewered by Grell's merciless commentary. They stay, talking, long after the sound equipment has been packed up and the bar closed and the floor swept and the barista says, for the final time, that they need to leave.

Grell rolls his eyes at the bartender and fishes through his blazer pockets for a card and a fountain pen.

"This has our band's website on it, but more importantly-" He flips the card over to find a blank space to write, "This is my number."

She thanks him, though she doubts she really will ever call. Tonight has been simply an escape, a chance to vent. It's been a welcome relief, but tomorrow she'll return to school, to family, to the solemn responsibility of pretending that nothing hurts her. As far as she can see, someone like Grell lives in a different world; his stories have an air of chaotic freedom to them that she can't even imagine possessing. She wonders if they could even begin to understand each other enough to really be the **"**kindred spirits**", **Grell has so quickly proclaimed them to be. As if he can read her mind, he touches her cheek, and it doesn't feel invasive or unwelcome, but strangely familiar,

"You have such an angry sadness in your eyes," he says with a wistful smile, handing her the card, "Should you ever feel the need, give me a call and you can pour your little heart out."

"Thank you, I- I'll keep that in mind..."

"You shouldn't be afraid, you know."

"Afraid of what?"

"To wear red."

She almost laughs at the assumption.

"What makes you think that's what I'm afraid of?"

Grell shrugs with a smug, knowing smile.

"Most other redheads are shy about the colors that God gave them and try not to stand out. You're dressed as if for a funeral, presumably to deflect all the attention you naturally draw to yourself just by being you; you have something no one else does, and everybody knows it. Red suits you so perfectly- in color and in spirit- why not embrace it?"

The warm flush of flattery is offset by apprehension; the last man to award her that precise sort of praise subsequently, thoroughly, broke her heart.

"What about you, then?" she asks, as they step into the night air and she pulls her coat around her**.** "Are you that sort of person?"

He gives the most wistful smile, and for a moment, she understands what he meant when he waxed poetic about the familiar pain in her eyes.

"Oh**,** honey, I only wish."


	2. Light The Match

"I've run away."

That's the first thing she says, the first time she dials Grell's number. It's weeks later just past midnight, and she's holding the (possibly plague**-**ridden) pay phone at a cautious distance from her face. She had been right to count on Grell being a night owl.

"... Angelina?" Grell's voice comes through the other line, betraying confusion, surprise and the slightest hint of elation all in the utterance of her name.

There's no reason to waste words confirming what he clearly already knows, so she moves on.

"I'm at the Northeast bus station."

"Northeast?" Grell gasps."Good _God_, sweetie, are you armed?"

"Yes," she says, curtly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, before breaking into uncertainty, "And I - I don't know where I'm going next."

"Do you need me to pick you up?" Grell asks. She isn't even able to respond before he answers his own question. "I'm going to pick you up. Don't you move."

She sits in the open air on a worn bench beneath a streetlamp, clinging to her small suitcase and deliberately avoiding the gaze of the more unsavory characters wandering about.

Many cars slow down when they draw near to her, a few windows are rolled down and a few invitations are extended, none of which are the least bit respectful, but it's only when one of those cars resembles a hearse that she knows it's the one that's here to save her.

Grell disregards all etiquette and legality by parking in the middle of the street as soon as he's drawn near, slamming the door and half sprinting towards her. He glitters in the lamplight from the skull pattern arranged in rhinestones on his t-shirt.

"Are you alright? What happened? I'm sorry it took so long, I came as quickly as I could, but it's hard to figure out where the old loon keeps the keys and- Oh God, sweetheart, you're crying!"

Her hand flies up beneath her eyes, wiping away a smear of tears and mascara that she hadn't known was there. She looks at her dirtied fingers with a sense of wonder and dismay.

"Who did it?" he asks, taking her into a fierce embrace, "Tell me who broke your heart. I'll kill him."

She shakes her head, starting to push away from the crushing hug, then slowly, determinedly, melting into it.

"Nobody," she says, in a near whisper, "Nobody broke my heart... just me."

"There there," he coos, petting her hair, "Let me whisk you away from this dreadful place and you can tell me your story."

She glances at the car and frowns, holding back a few sobs.

"You're making fun of me, aren't you?"

Grell casts a glance in the same direction, then back at her.

"Why, because of my disregard for traffic laws? Nobody's here, don't worry. I'm not going to get caught- this is probably the least illegal thing happening in a two mile radius."

"A hearse, really? After you harassed me last time for how I was dressed. 'As if for a funeral', I believe you said."

Grell grins, bursting into a deep resonant laughter, his arms still draped around her shoulders.

"Oh come on now, sweetheart, you think I went through the trouble of procuring a strange vehicle just for the sake of commenting on your wardrobe? My lady, you're so vain, you slay me!"

Angelina clenches her fists and huffs as Grell pulls back and cups her face, gently wiping a stream of kohl stained tears off her cheek.

"But," he continues, "Why wouldn't you be? If any lady deserves the right to conceited, it would be you, you lovely thing."

"You're strange," she says, "For all I know, that's the sort of thing you do all the time. Musicians aren't known for their attachment to reality."

"Then let's say it was a grand gesture for you; I don't mind taking the credit if you'll bestow it upon me. You're still in your widow's garb, after all. For whom or what are we holding this midnight funeral procession?"

She opens her mouth, then stops, resting her head against his shoulder.

"I'll tell you another time."

"It was in your song, wasn't it?"

"My song?"

"The piece you played, when I fell in love at first sound. It was for our dearly departed, wasn't it?"

"It was... somewhat."

"You're not just in mourning, love." he says, with the delight of revelation shimmering in his bright green eyes, "You're bloodthirsty."

There's something about Grell's observation that chills her to the bone even more than his choice of words does. Heavy layers of black wool don't protect her from a cold draft, don't seem to do any good at hiding the surgical scars across her middle. If it were possible for a sensation- a phantom pain to make a sound, the ghosts of her stitches would be screaming in deafening volume. She feels exposed.

"I have my violin," she says.

"I have room on stage for you," he replies, "If you've nowhere else to go, then come along with me. We'll play an ode to your fury."

As her knight in shining glitter drives her off to safety, Angelina is privileged to learn that Grell is not at all a fan of dignified silence. He has no lack of stories, anecdotes, snippets of songs to sing, animated retellings of books he's recently read, gossip about people that she doesn't know but feels she does by the time they reach their destination. The hearse makes far more sense when they pull into the driveway of a decrepit looking victorian house, its exterior painted in peeling shades of black and gray, the adjoining carriage house adorned with plaster gargoyles, crosses and skulls, its windows boarded up completely.

"This is your house?" She asks, gathering up her small suitcase.

"It's where I live right now," he responds, rushing around to her side to open the door for her, bowing like an old-fashioned footman as he takes her hand to assist her, "My lady, allow me please, to escort you to your room."

It's a lavishly decorated, if small room decorated with a baroque sensibility. That is to say, elegant clutter. Grell rushes to straighten up a few scattered sheets of music notes and assorted garments littering the bed and vanity.

"Excuse the mess, you did catch me quite by surprise."

"You want me to stay in your room?"

"I'm afraid the guest room is in no state to be occupied at the moment, so until that is sorted out, I must insist you take the remaining habitable spot." He kicks some clothes under the bed and sets a rather abused red guitar upright in its stand, "Just set your things anywhere you please, I'll make us some drinks."

Angelina looks at the clock.

"That really won't be necessary, I-"

"Nonsense, make yourself at home. You and I are to be partners in crime from now on, so let's get to know each other. I'll break out my manicure kit and we can bitch about men for a while."

"I'm just rather tired. It's been an exhausting day for me."

That's a sizable understatement, but sizable understatements are the main staple of her daily parlance.

Without a thought, she unbuttons her blouse and begins to wiggle out of her skirt into the simple slip beneath. Grell makes a sound- the closest word she can find to describing it is a squeak, and she catches herself- here she is, in the bedroom of an eccentric flaming queen of a musician she's met all of once before tonight, and she's stripping in front of him like it's nothing.

"I'm sorry-!" She says, halfway through closing her blouse again, "I wasn't even thinking-"

"No, no, it's fine. I don't mind at all, I was just surprised," He says, peeking at her out of the corner of his eye through slits between his fingers, concealing a blush, "I suppose I like to be more prepared when I'm about to see a show. Ah... would you like something to wear to sleep?"

"This is fine," she says, paring down to her slip as efficiently as she can manage, "That is, unless you prefer I put something else on. It is your house."

"Whatever you're comfortable in will do!" Grell insists, shaking out of the shock, settling instead into a growing gaze of adoration, "You've got a fabulous body, hon. Nothing wrong with flaunting it."

"You're just buttering me up because you want me to play with you."

"No, I'm buttering you up because you have a smoking hot body."

She laughs. She's not really sure why, but the giggle escapes her before she's even aware of it, pushing through her solemn exterior and catching her off guard. It must be the ridiculousness of this entire situation.

"There's a pretty sight," says Grell, "You haven't had a real one in quite a while, have you?"

It's all at once soothing and unnerving, the way he presumptuously tries to read her; speaks as if he already knows her. She doesn't mind terribly much.

"You're creepy," she says fondly, sliding beneath the red sheets, her limbs and eyelids growing heavy by the moment.

"I suppose that is my not so subtle cue to retire to the sofa then."

"No. Stay..." It's loneliness that drove her to run away, and now that she's left a world of well-populated solitude behind, she effectively knows only one person, "Until I can sleep. Sing to me."

"It would be my pleasure."


End file.
